


Travellin' Soldier

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Based on a song, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2562731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes works after school at Angelo's cafe, and usually he's bored out of his mind. Then John Watson walks in one day and turns his life around. This is the struggle of love and loss and heartbreak, and how easy it is to experience all three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't listened to country music in ages, but I was going through my room one day and stumbled upon a Dixie Chicks album, and the song Travelin' Soldier jumped out at me. I've loved the song since the first time I heard it when I was much younger, and as soon as I heard it again, I was struck with how fantastic a Johnlock AU it would be.
> 
> So I wrote it.

The bell gave the soft chime that signalled the café door being opened.

Sherlock glanced up from where he was filling a coffee pot behind the counter, a small jolt of surprise shooting through him when he laid eyes on the young soldier that had walked in. Sherlock followed him with his eyes as he walked to one of the window booths, placing his cover on the table top.

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that accompanied the nervous pinch in his gut.

Young soldier, without much training.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed the other waitress getting ready to head out to the booth. “Hang on Sally,” he said, his hand catching her wrist as she made to walk by. “I’ve got this one. Please.” It wasn’t a word he used often, but he knew it always worked on Sally.

She glanced over at the booth and smiled softly. “Alright, Sherlock. Go on.” She punched his arm in a friendly way and moved to take his spot filling coffee pots.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, setting a menu down in front of the young man.

Sherlock glanced over him quickly before the boy would have the chance to look up. The uniform fit him well, even when he was sitting. Nice square shoulders, a good waist, hands that were a bit on the small side but not frail or feminine in any way. His nametag on his shirt declared his last name to be Watson. The patches on his uniform told the story of doctor.

 _Doctor?_ Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He didn’t look a day over nineteen. He couldn’t already be a doctor, could he?

Short-cut dusty blond hair framed a naturally tan face that looked a bit pale in this light, and when he turned to look at Sherlock for the first time, he saw eyes that were some impossibly dark colour that turned out to be blue when the light hit them right.

“That’s a nice scarf,” the soldier remarked, his eyes flicking down to the material at Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock didn’t hear the sarcasm or the mockery in the soldier’s voice, but he knew it had to have been in there. “I meant to drink.” His voice had a bit of a harder edge to it. He should have stayed behind the counter. This was Sally’s table. He shouldn’t have imposed, should have just followed the rules.

Watson’s eyebrows furrowed, and God, if it didn’t make him look more attractive.

_Attractive? Where had that come from?_

_Why else would you be over here?_

Sherlock could have continued arguing with himself, but the soldier was talking again.

“I know what you meant. And I was serious. I like it.” He was tapping out a ragged rhythm against the floor with the toe of one tan boot. Nervous. Habit? No, his left hand was shaking slightly, like he was used to tapping out a rhythm with his thumb; a new habit then, a substitute.

Sherlock couldn’t help it when his hand moved to the fabric that wound around his throat. He ducked his head for a moment in what he hoped came across as a silent thank you. “What can I get you?” he tried again, glancing back up at the young man.

There was a small smile on his lips. “Tea would be wonderful. And what would you recommend to eat?”

He had to pause for a moment. No one had ever asked him his opinion, on anything really. “Um,” _that was intelligent, Sherlock_ , “this time of day the pancakes are pretty common.”

John shook his head. “That’s not what I asked. I want to know what _you_ would recommend. What do you usually get?”

 _Are you flirting with me?_ Sherlock’s eyes flickered between those of the soldier and he hoped so. “I don’t eat. Very often that is,” he amended.

The glance Watson passed over his body said he believed him. “Pancakes, then?”

“You could try them with bananas and honey drizzled on.” It wasn’t on the menu, and no one knew that Sherlock sometimes stayed after hours to make these, but he didn’t care.

Watson arched a brow. “That’s not on the menu. Recommended, though?”

“Highly.”

He nodded briefly, handing the barely glanced at menu back to Sherlock.

“I’ll get that in and grab your tea.”

“Hurry back.”

Sherlock smiled as he walked away, placing the menu back on the stack.

“Angelo, we’ve got an order,” he called over the counter, placing his just-now written tab on the wheel for his boss and the chef to take up. It was a slow morning; the order would be out quickly.

He filled a cup with hot tea and put it on a saucer before walking it out to the table. “Here you are.” He set the saucer down carefully, angling the cup so that it would have to be turned to be grabbed. The blond soldier smiled up at him at turned the handle to the left. Left handed then.

“Thank you.”

“Did you want anything in it?” Sherlock had forgotten to ask. How had he forgotten?

And this young soldier was indeed very distracting. In what was, quite simply, the best kind of way.

Watson was shaking his head. “This is great, thanks.” There was that half smile again. Sherlock wanted to brush his thumb along those lips and—

He turned around before he could do something quite so stupid.

Why are you getting so attached? He’s a soldier, obviously about to be shipped off. Stop it, Sherlock. It’s not healthy.

But all he had to do was flick his eyes back up to where Watson was sitting sipping his tea and his argument was lost. He was already gone to this young blond man.

“Sherlock. Order’s up.” At Angelo’s voice, Sherlock turned and grabbed the plate of pancakes and bananas with drizzled honey, walking it over to the lone soldier.

Watson glanced at the plate and then up at him. “Say, can I ask you something?”

Sherlock hesitated a bit. He didn’t like the questions most people asked him; they were too intrusive, either to him or to other people. But something told him that the boy sitting in front of him wasn’t like that. “Sure you may.”

“Would you… would you mind sitting down with me for a little while and just… just talking to me? I’m being shipped off today and…” he dropped his eyes, but the return of his shaking hand and tapping foot told Sherlock that he was nervous or anxious or a combination of both. “And I’m just not feeling so great right now. I’m sorry; it’s not your problem. Forget I asked.”

Sherlock smiled softly to himself, though why he was smiling he wasn’t really sure. He set his hand lightly on Watson’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“John,” he replied immediately.

Sherlock squeezed his hand once and then dropped it back to his side. “I’m off in an hour. There’s a place not far from here that we can go to talk, if you can wait around that long.”

John Watson’s eyes shot up to Sherlock’s, a small light in them as he smiled up at him. “Yeah I can. I’ll hang around here for you then?”

Sherlock chuckled. “If you keep buying tea, you can stay around as long as you wish. Now enjoy your pancakes before they get cold.” He walked away and back to the counter to start cleaning, a small smile still perched on his lips.

***

The morning didn’t get any faster, and Sherlock didn’t get any more entertained. Sally tried to talk to him, but as per usual, he found her attempts at discussion faulty and soft. Boring. He knew that she had had a crush on him until he had finally, finally told her about… well, a part of himself, and she had nodded in understanding and promised to keep his secret.

“I’m off, Sally,” Sherlock called back to her the second his shift ended, and he untied his apron and tossed it onto the pile. “I’ll see you tomorrow after school, yeah?”

Sally waved to him. “Enjoy the rest of the day, Sherlock,” she called, a happy smile on her face as she turned to bring an order to the table.

Sherlock walked over to the table where John Watson was still sitting, finishing off the last few sips of tea. “Come on, I’m off. I’ve got a place to show you,” he said, immediately turning to leave the café, stepping up to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab.

“Is it far?” John asked, coming out of the café just as a cab was pulling up.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, his hand hesitating on the door handle. “Concerned that I’m a child murderer intent on taking his next victim?”

John laughed, stepping up and putting them close – too close – his hand reaching for the door handle and slowly opening it, their fingers brushing. “Nope. Just curious.” He grinned, pulling open the door and sliding in.

Sherlock entered the cab behind John, closing the door and asking to be driven to Lambeth Bridge. “Don’t ask about the bridge, John,” he whispered, turning his head and looking out the window as they started moving. “I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Okay…” John murmured, hesitating on the word, but still amiable, it seemed, to go along with what was happening.

Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes, still unsure if this was a good idea. He had just met John, literally an hour and five minutes ago. And later today, this young soldier was being shipped off, sent to the desert to fight with others like him; die-hards who volunteered or young scared boys who had had their names drawn out of a hat.

He could have been one of those boys, easily.

“Hey, I’m not a murderer, either,” John joked from beside him, stirring him from his thoughts and making him turn to face the young blond boy.

“Why did you volunteer?” Sherlock asked, and he watched as John’s face fell a little.

“Not here, okay?” he mumbled, making Sherlock wonder how bad it could be.

Sherlock nodded instead of prodding further, content for now to let it be.

It took too long to get to the bridge, the traffic heavy, even for a Sunday afternoon. Impatient, Sherlock had started tapping his fingers, then bouncing his leg, letting out insufferable sighs at the indignity of being stuck in such a small space with nothing to do. But then John reached over, setting his strong, warm hand on Sherlock’s knee to still his movements. Sherlock blushed, looking down, but he didn’t try to remove John’s hand, and John didn’t mind holding it there.

Finally, they stopped, and Sherlock jumped out, paying the cabbie through the window and impatiently waiting for John to join him on the pavement.

“Come on, John!” he called, briskly walking towards the bridge. It was better being outside, in the fresh air with the scent of London running into his lungs. No more was he the shy waiter at the café. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he saw the world with a hawk-like clarity and practicality, especially in front of an audience.

John had to jog to keep up. “What’s the bloody hurry?” he puffed, finally coming even with Sherlock, though he had to nearly jog to be able to keep up with his long strides.

“You’re leaving this evening, and I’d like to spend a bit of time with you. You’re the one who wanted to talk, after all,” he said, flashing a charming smile over at John.

“Thanks for the reminder,” John muttered, grabbing at Sherlock’s sleeve and making him slow down. “I’ve got a bit of time. Can we just enjoy it? Or at least walk at a pace that’s easy for me to match?” he chuckled.

Sherlock swallowed, slowing down and pulling his arm away from John’s grip. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, but, well… it was complicated. John was leaving; Sherlock was in college and dedicated to his own line of interests. John would be gone, and where would that leave Sherlock for the next year? Best to not relay any sentiment at all.

“Hey,” John said softly, and when Sherlock looked over at him, he saw the fear of being sent off to a war that he didn’t want any part of. “I don’t mind. Yeah?” He seemed to be asking permission, and Sherlock nodded, holding out his hand, which John took.

Seeing that the river was at low tide, Sherlock dragged John, not onto the bridge, but down, towards the river. The bank was a little slippery, and more than once they ended up using each other for balance. There was an outcrop of cement, though, that was clear of mud and water. It was always above the surface of the Thames, but it was far enough out that the water usually made it impossible to get there. Now, though, they had no problems.

Sherlock hoisted himself up first, crossing his legs and holding out a hand to help John up beside him. Once there, they leant against one another, sharing warmth.

It was John who spoke first. “I’m scared shitless about going over there,” he murmured, shaking his head, his hands folded in his lap. “I mean, they’re going to send me off to training first. Northern Ireland is my understanding. Not quite sure why, but… orders are orders.”

Sherlock didn’t really know what to say to that. _Orders are orders_. Sherlock hadn’t followed orders his entire life. He was glad that he hadn’t ever thought about the army. He wouldn’t have survived a week in even a camp, let alone the bloody desert. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m sure of it. Medical experience like you, they can’t just throw you into the line of fire, now can they? They need you to stay safe to patch up the rest of the idiots that get injured.” He was trying to be light, but he knew he was failing miserably.

John chuckled, though, which was enough to surprise Sherlock into nearly falling from their spot. When John only laughed harder, Sherlock huffed and shook his head.

“So you obviously don’t want to go to war. Why did you sign up?” he asked, arching a significant eyebrow at John when he stopped laughing. He frowned, though, and cursed himself when he saw the way John’s face fell. “Sorry… that was-”

“No, it’s fine,” John said, shaking his head and trying to smile. “It doesn’t really make much sense, does it?” He chuckled as though it was funny, but Sherlock knew that it wasn’t.

“Your mother died recently,” he said, appraising John from where he sat by his side. “Cancer. Lung cancer, was it? Your father isn’t taking it well, and your sister worse.” He kept looking, kept deducing. “You’re a good student, but you fight a lot. Rugby captain for the last three years of secondary school, carried it on into college but disposed of the sport in university so that you could focus on your studies. You have a dog – a Golden Retriever – and your sister has a long haired cat. You’re left handed; you prefer your tea with a teaspoon of milk and a touch of sugar. Though why you didn’t tell me at the café I have no idea. You’re torn up about leaving but you feel that there’s more use saving people over there than wasting your efforts here trying to save your family.”

Sherlock stopped, blinking and forcing himself to look away. “I’m sorry.” Shaking his head, angry at himself, Sherlock tugged his scarf tighter around his neck and jumped down, quickly making his way towards the road. Bringing John out here was a stupid idea. Thinking that John was going to like _him_ was an even worse idea.

“Sherlock! Wait!”

There was the pounding of feet and then a hand grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and spun him around.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes guarded. Stupid. So fucking stupid of him to give in to his sudden attraction, to think that he could ever have a chance with John, to think that it was a good idea to begin with, to think –

His thoughts suddenly ground to a halt at the firm kiss being pressed to his lips.

Startled, Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, and he just stood there, hands coming up but not touching John, his brain sitting at a jarring halt.

John pulled away almost as quickly as he had initiated, and Sherlock noted – groggily – the blush on his cheeks, the light in his eyes, and the swollen red of his lips.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked, blinking quickly, trying desperately to get the cogs in his mind working once more.

John’s blush deepened, and he opened his mouth, looked lost, and closed it again. After a moment, he shook his head. “Sorry. It was stupid. I wasn’t…”

 _Embarrassment, shame, fear_. Sherlock read all of that and more across John’s features, and he suddenly felt the need to make them go away. He nearly leapt forward, catching John’s face in his hands and kissing him again, letting his teen hormones guide him through the motions.

John’s response was immediate, grabbing Sherlock’s shirt and then his waist, pulling him closer, pressing them together until Sherlock forgot what air was and why it was important. Breathing. Breathing was boring, oh so boring when compared to the way that John Watson kissed. There was tongue but it wasn’t sloppy, his lips were soft against Sherlock’s, and every so often, usually because of a fault of Sherlock’s, there was a gentle bump of teeth.

John broke away first, gasping for air with a stupid grin on his face.

Sherlock realised that a mirror image of that look was present on his face as well, and he broke out laughing.

“So you don’t have a boyfriend, then?” John asked, shaking his head and still smiling.

Sherlock snorted. “Please. I’m an arse. No one wants to go out with me,” he said, waving his hand as if it was the most ridiculous notion he had ever heard.

“Well… if you wouldn’t mind… I mean, I don’t really have family to send letters to. Could I, I mean, would you mind if I sent some to you?” he asked, looking up at Sherlock with the shyest expression Sherlock had ever seen.

Sherlock smiled softly, his heart going out to this kid who was only a few years older than himself. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”


	2. Chapter 2

_September 4_

_Well, they sent us off to this bloody army camp first. It was hell; real, literal hell. Fucking sergeants and majors yelling at us to crawl through the mud and run through tires as if those types of things are actually going to be out in bloody Kandahar. I mean seriously, you would think that they’d just stepped out of Vietnam instead of bloody Afghanistan._

_Anyway, sorry. I can’t vent over here, because everyone else is going through the same shit. So it’s kind of pointless to talk to anyone here about it when we’re all fighting our own demons._

_I don’t really understand the point of training camp, though. Like… I mean, I understand that it “instils principles” and “teaches us comradery” and “builds physique” but all the other bullshit that they’re spewing is just that – bullshit. It doesn’t do shit to prepare us for what’s actually out there._

_Sorry. Damn it, I said I wasn’t going to keep venting to you._

_How are you? Is it raining yet?_

_Oh, god, that was smooth. Talking about the weather. God, I’m so hopeless at conversation. Well, I wish that this was a conversation. They haven’t exactly been forthright in letting us receive letters. Something about wanting to throw us right in, to get us adjusted and immersed here. It’s just more bullshit, in my opinion. So, if you’ve sent letters, I’m sorry, but they’re not letting us get them._

_Anyway, I hope school is going well for you. You’re in college, right? I think that’s right, but I don’t remember exactly. I kind of miss it right now. Dropped out of uni early, and I, well… yeah._

_All the best,_

_John_

_September 21_

_I finally got your letters. Sherlock, I… thank you. Really, it means a lot to know that someone’s thinking about me. Try not to worry about me too much, though. I promise I’m doing alright; I’ve been helping out another surgeon here lately, getting to know the tools. They want to set me up on my own here pretty soon, but they also want to throw me into the battle. Right now it seems to be down to an argument between two majors, and I honestly don’t know which one I want to win out._

_Because, I mean, it’s safer here, behind the lines and working in the hospital. I know that. I’m not an idiot. The people who die out here are usually the soldiers sent out and off base. But I don’t like the fact that I can’t save nearly half of the soldiers brought in. Their wounds are… too graphic to describe. Some of the boys make it, sure. But even those that do… most of them are without limbs or something now. So part of me would rather avoid all of this death by going out on missions and shit. I don’t know, I guess. I’m trying, Sherlock. I’m trying to make it back home._

_Cheers,_

_John_

_December 11_

_Sherlock, I… I don’t want to be forward…_

_Fuck it, yes I do._

_I know that you say that everyone hates you. That you’re a freak and whatever, but they’re wrong, okay? You’re bloody brilliant and fantastic and amazing. Do you know how much I look forward to your letters? Or how much I laugh when you tell me that you’ve exploded a beaker or tested a composite on a frog or produced so much smoke in the chem leb at school that the fire alarms went off and you got soaked through because you stayed back trying to save your experiments? Sometimes I laugh so hard that the boys in my troop worry that I’m going crazy._

_Sherlock, I…_

_The only thing that’s keeping me going out here is the hope that I’ll make it home and see you again. I can still feel the texture of your shirt and coat against my fingers, your hot breath mixing with mine. And don’t you dare make fun of me for saying this; at least I’m not writing you poetry._

_Just… I want to meet you again. I want to take you dancing and for you to show me the city the way you see it. I want to meet your parents and your pretentious brother. I want to hold you and kiss you again._

_So please, please… when I make it out of this, be waiting for me at the airport, yeah?_

_Can’t wait to see you again,_

_John xx_

**

“Sherlock, put that bloody envelope down and get to work,” Angelo snapped from behind the ticket window, making Sherlock jump nearly sky high. Sally, standing beside him stacking plates, giggled.

The envelope in Sherlock’s hands felt heavier than normal, not because of its physical weight, but because of how badly he wanted to open it. He had grabbed it from the mail stack on his way to work – it was Saturday today, and twelve days since he had sent out his letter to John – but Angelo had forbidden that he open it while on duty.

“There’s no one in here, Angelo,” Sherlock snapped, earning a look from the single old man seated at the far end of the bar, sipping on a single cup of coffee. Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge him.

“Sherlock, for the love of god, if you open that letter before your shift is over, I will fire you. You’ve given me enough heartache over the last few months as it is; I don’t need you getting all fuzzy in the head from reading that letter.”

“But Angelo –”

“No buts, Sherlock. Now that’s enough. Go wash the windows if you’re bored of stacking dishes. And leave that bloody envelope in here.”

Sherlock nearly growled, slapping the unopened letter down on the counter and tugging his apron off over his head. He walked into the supply closet and snatched up window cleaner, a flannel, and a roll of paper towels before he all but stormed outside.

Muttering to himself about how unfair Angelo was being, he started working on the windows.

He hadn’t been _that_ vacant minded these last months. The worse he had done was let a pot of coffee go for too long, and he had served a customer cold coffe instead of hot. Well, then there was that other time when he had messed up a couple orders – alright, maybe five or six of them. And he had re-washed clean plates.

As he often had since John had left, he wondered what the young army doctor would say to him.

 _Put a jacket on_.

Sherlock blinked at the voice in his head, clear as it was the day he had met John. He looked down, noticing that he was indeed without his coat, and in the early January weather, that probably wasn’t the smartest thing.

He went back to cleaning.

_Idiot, I’m serious. Go put your coat on._

Sherlock sighed and continued working. This was how he imagined John would be like when he came back from the war. Persistent and level headed, always taking care of him, making sure he was okay and giving him the pushes he needed.

_You’re going to catch a cold, and then what am I to do with you?_

Sighing heavily, Sherlock put down the cleaning supplies and went back into the café, donned his coat, and then returned.

_Isn’t that better, now?_

“Shut up, John. It’s not as if I would have frozen.”

_Watch what you’re doing. Angelo will send you back out if there are streaks._

Grumbling, Sherlock put more focus and effort into the washing of the window.

Sherlock finished cleaning the windows in what was a record time for him, and with John still perched in the back of his mind, he made his way inside.

“- too young for this. He’s sixteen. He doesn’t need to be waiting for a soldier to come back from an unwinnable war.”

“I know, I agree. But look at him, Angelo. I’ve never seen him so excited for anything in my life.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, clearing his throat loudly as he glared at Angelo and Sally. “If you would be so kind as to not talk about me as if you were my parents, I would appreciate it greatly,” he snapped, taking the cleaning supplies back to the cupboard and returning to his post cleaning dishes.

Angelo dipped his head and disappeared behind the ticket window, and Sally took up a rag and started wiping off tables.

The old man had apparently finished his coffee at some point and had left.

The rest of the shift passed with the quickness and efficiency of pushing large rocks through a fine grate. When he was finally allowed to hang up his apron, Sherlock left the café quickly, taking off down the street. He didn’t work far from home, and he needed the cold air on his cheeks.

_You’re making a big deal out of nothing. They’re just trying to look out for you._

“Oh for God’s sake, John! Shut up!” Sherlock snapped, making a lady nearby jump and shoot him a hard glare. “Oh, piss off,” he growled at her, turning up his coat collar trudging on down the street.

He arrived home a few short minutes later and slammed the front door behind himself.

“Sherlock?” he mother called, worry plain in her voice as her footsteps drew nearer. “Sweetheart, supper’s nearly d-”

“Not hungry,” he grumbled, striding past her and nearly running up the stairs to his room, where he slammed and locked the door.

_That was dramatic._

Sherlock didn’t comment as he ripped off his scarf and jacket, tossing them to the winged chair in the corner. He crossed to his bed, sitting down and ripping open the letter that had been heavy in his mind since he had found it in the post pile that morning.

 

_January 12_

_Hey ~~love~~. Shit, sorry, I guess that kind of just slipped out. Yeah, so this is going to be one of those cheesy letters where the soldier writes home to his lover and tells them how he really feels. Except you’re not my lover. Well… not yet, at least. _

_Maybe we can start with boyfriends? Or not. Start as friends; maybe go on a couple of relaxed dates. No expectations, I guess. I mean, I don’t want to push you into doing anything. Technically… well, I mean, I’m an “adult” and you’re a “kid,” so… I don’t know. Maybe it would be frowned upon. Maybe your parents wouldn’t like me. Fuck, we may not even like each other._

_I don’t care. Sherlock Holmes, by god, I want to kiss you again._

_Every time shit hits the fan over here, and I start thinking that I can’t do this anymore, I just think of you, and that remarkable kiss, and it gets me through the day._

_I want to get off the plane coming home and wrap you up. I want to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed. I want to take you out to a nice restaurant and show you what love means, since you seem to be so against the concept._

_I just… fuck, I’m sorry. I know I should have waited and told you in person. I’m not very good at confronting my feelings, though. So I wanted to tell you now, like this, because it’s easier for me. Besides, I’m halfway through my tour, so… I guess it’s a good time to tell you._

_I hope… I hope you don’t mind._

_Yeah, that’s a really shitty way to leave off a letter. Maybe I shouldn’t send this. No… no I need to. I need to tell you._

_Look, I’ve got to get some sleep. It’s late right now, and I just got out of surgery. Don’t worry about me, alright? I may not be able to write for awhile, but I look forward to reading your response._

_With lots of thought,_

_John xx_

Sherlock read the letter three more times before he set it down on the small table beside his bed, where all of John’s other letters rested. His mind was numb, blank, trying to catch up at lightning speed but failing to.

John loved him.

John. John Watson.

Loved him. _Him_. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Of all the people in the world, John chose to love Sherlock.

They hardly even knew each other. Oh god this was going to end horribly. What if it ended horribly? John was going to come back and get to know him and hate him. Sherlock couldn’t risk that.

But even as he was thinking it, he was pulling out a pen and paper to write.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the angst that I promised

Sherlock had felt his share of discomfort, pain, fear, whatever. He had felt it before, and he knew that eventually he would feel it again.

Not like this, though. Never like this.

The first hour had been spent in anxiety at opening the letter.

The first two days had been spent in anguish, curled up on his bed, screaming at anyone who tried to come into his room. He didn’t eat, he barely slept, and he tossed up bile a couple times into the small garbage bin under his desk.

By the third day, there were dark bags under his eyes and he looked like a walking corpse, but he managed to shower, to get in some toast, and then he was driven to the airport by his mother.

Sherlock walked out onto the tarmac alone, meeting the bundle of four soldiers, dressed in their blues, at the rear of an aeroplane. They were guarding a casket, and one was holding a small white box.

Other caskets were set up, and four soldiers were assigned to each one, but Sherlock didn’t count the number of pine boxes or crying families come to see their children or their siblings or their parents. He couldn’t, because if he did, then he would become one of them. He would be the lover of a person he had never had the chance to love. He would start crying, and that wasn’t something he would allow himself to do here.

One of the soldiers walked up to him and saluted him, handing over the white box. Sherlock stiffly took it before watched the soldier walk back over to his post.

Sherlock cleared his throat, holding the box tightly against his chest. As he looked up at the soldiers, he wondered how old they thought he was. John was nearly twenty. Sherlock was currently only sixteen, but he knew he looked far older.

“I, um…” he trailed off, looking down at the ground. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” He wasn’t one for public mourning, and so if the soldiers expected him to start weeping and clinging to the coffin, it just wasn’t going to happen.

One of the officers took pity on him and stepped forward, resting a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Is there a funeral home you want him prepared at? A certain cemetery where you want him buried? We’ll take care of all that for you.”

Sherlock noticed the other officers stirring, and he knew then that this wasn’t normal for them to do, but he appreciated it all the same.

He quickly ran through his mind the funeral homes that he knew of and the locations of the cemeteries. When he had relayed the information, he wrote down his number on a pad of paper that he kept on him for taking notes on strangers, and then rewrote the information.

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking up to meet the eyes of the soldier. Icy blue eyes met Sherlock’s, and the soldier smiled, holding out his hand.

“Sholto,” the soldier offered. “James Sholto. I was John’s commanding officer. I insisted on bringing him home.”

Sherlock sniffed, then nodded. He thanked the older man, then nodded at the other soldiers, and he left, still clinging to the small white box. He didn’t look at his mother as he passed her, walking to the car, and she didn’t offer any words.

**

Days after the funeral, there was a rugby game taking place at the college Sherlock attended. Sherlock wasn’t there for the game. He was under the stands, making a trade with the school’s dealer – a wad of cash for a bottle of cocaine-saline solution. His hands were shaking from the high he was only just coming off of as he took the bottle and tucked it away in his inside pocket.

Drugs made him stop hurting, made the ache in his chest disappear, made the empty space in his head that used to house John’s voice fill up with pleasant white noise.

“Ladies and gentlemen, would you all please bow your heads in a moment of silence for the local young men and women who have given their lives in the war.”

The voice of the announcer caught Sherlock off guard as he was turning around. His feet stuttered to a halt, and his breath caught in his throat as he waited, hung on each new syllable that came out of the announcer’s mouth.

“John Hamish Watson.”

Those five syllables rattled around in Sherlock’s skull until he was gasping for breath and nearly crying out in agony. Sobs ahead of him pulled him free of his torment for a moment, and he saw a younger boy clinging to his piccolo as if it were a stuffed bear. Behind him, Sherlock heard the dealer – Red, as he was known by the students – walking away.

Sherlock locked eyes with the younger boy, and then he fled, running as fast as he could for home.

**

The funeral for one John H. Watson, RAMC, med student, nineteen years old, son of the late Geoff and Amanda Watson, elder brother of the late Harriet Watson, friend to all who were lucky enough to know him, was held on a Friday morning, just as the sun was rising above the tops of the buildings of London.

A Lutheran pastor led the service, because apparently John had been religious, but not Catholic. Sherlock hadn’t known any of this, but Sholto had, and Sherlock was glad to have him there.

John was laid to rest after some words were given by Sherlock and Sholto both.

Sherlock held out as the casket was lowered into the ground beneath a swirling granite headstone that read his name, his date of birth, but not his date of death. Below those was transcribed “There is no death for the soldier, for the lover, for the loved, for the beaten; the spirit remains to fight again, to love again.”

Sherlock had heard the quote long ago, from a novel, maybe, or from a poem. He couldn’t remember, and the internet had turned up no results, so he had ordered them to be put on the headstone without crediting the author.

Before dirt could be tossed atop John’s casket, before the young man who had loved the unlovable boy was sealed away into a darkness eternal, Sherlock lunged forward, dropping to his knees beside the hole and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a crumbled and re-smoothed letter.

It was the only letter that Sherlock had that John hadn’t wrote himself, the one that told him that his soldier was coming home.

“You’re home now, John,” Sherlock whispered, tears finally spilling over as he dropped the letter into the grave, watching it flutter down and come to rest for just a moment on top of the dark pine, before its momentum carried it over the side and to the very bottom of the grave.

“You’re home now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also thanks to [startingwiththeridingcrop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StartingWithTheRidingCrop/pseuds/StartingWithTheRidingCrop) for beta reading for me ^_^ Love you, wifey!


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